WORDCHASM

4

“Can I get another ‘Amen?’” The spotlights made Brother Claghorn’s dazzling white teeth look almost cartoonlike, as if they were lit by an internal light source. Brother Claghorn would assure you that the phenomenon was the fire of the Holy Spirit. The Spirit would move him, as long as the coffers were in danger of becoming full. The bottoms of the offering baskets seemed unreachable, since they would never be full enough. Brother Claghorn knew many a parishioner that couldn’t bear the awful burden of wealth, but he knew even more that it was a selfless act to bear their awful burdens for them. His back was strong, and could bear that cross.

He reminded the congregation that he could be girded up by the mighty kidney belt of their giving.

Bobby J. Memphis fidgeted, looking down at the red Fender Telecaster™ guitar cradled in his lap. Praise band was certainly better for being with the family; still, it wasn’t as much fun as being on tour. But it was an honorable pastime, one he gladly did to serve. It was difficult waiting for the sermon to end sometimes, but Brother Claghorn was a servant, and Spirit-led, as he often said. Most days, the Spirit would drive him to speak for 45 minutes, followed up by up to 15 of hammering home the offering message.

Brother Claghorn’s voice was reaching its quavering, expressive crescendo, submitting the truth for all to hear. The truth as presented here was that Jesus— ‘Jay. zuz,’ as Brother Claghorn pronounced it— paid for your sins, and now you could pay Him back with your tithes and gifts. “Remember the widow’s miter,” he boomed. “No one can give more than that.”

With a flourish of his two upturned, jeweled-ring encrusted hands, he called forth the ushers and the deacon. Straightening their rumpled jackets and ties as they walked to the front of the church, they retrieved the collection baskets and passed them around the pews, row by row. There was a certain hypnotic pattern to watching the baskets being passed end-to-end, received and moved back to the next row.

The air was alive with the hissing of crisp 5s, 10s, and 20s. Brother Claghorn had also initiated the opportunity for folks to put their debit and credit card numbers on slips of paper to drop in the basket. Check boxes were on the form for many suggested levels of donation. There was also a place to enter gross weekly wages. A simple checkmark and the Believer’s signature was all it would take to ensure the tithe was automatically determined for a parishioner’s convenience. There was also a service whereby volunteers would do tax forms and refunds could be automatically deposited in the Victory Worship Center’s bank account.

Bobby J. looked toward one of the few windows not made of stained glass in the worship center. There were 2 clear windows, one in each of the exit doors at the back of the nave. The sky outside was cloudy and darkly gray. It threatened rain upon the faithful, whenever they were to exit.

Florine began rustling her sheet music. All of the supporting musicians and choir singers knew this small ritual. In every service she participated in, as the baskets were being passed, she used this small flurry of quiet activity to signal to the choir and to the Praise Band that they needed to return to consciousness and prepare to perform the closing music. Florine T. Meriwether was the leader of the choir, as well as a fine pianist and organist. She occasionally sat in on the piano when the normal praise-band keyboardist, Eustace Frakes, was unavailable. (Eustace often went abroad into the mission field to far-flung places to spread the Gospel around the world. He was on hand this week, though.)

Florine had kept the choir wearing robes. There was a movement to dress just in Sunday best with no robes, much as the Praise Band did, but Florine was adamant. “We all sing That Old-Time Religion in choir rehearsal, and it’s still good enough for me!” At that only slightly dramatic choir practice, she shut down the small contingent of miscreants who were trying to get the unwritten mandatory robes policy to change. She had gone on to say, “Brother Claghorn has gone out of his way to make a mission here, and we’re going to look good supporting it! And robes are the way!”

But here, today, everyone wore his or her robes unquestioningly. Florine, all of her 97 pounds spit and vinegar, felt proud to be on the stage here at Victory. Especially with such a fine-looking choir.

Brother Claghorn finished collecting the gifts, and nodded to Florine. She stood, raising her arms in the sign used both to make choirs stand and to signify a touchdown in professional football. While a few of the members of the Praise Band and the choir would see the latter at some point later in the day, everyone stood (or prepared their instrument).

They broke into a reverent version of Bringing In The Sheaves, which, at the 3rd verse, the Praise Band ramped up into a joyous Country Gospel tempo. Brother Claghorn walked down the center aisle, waving and smiling at the congregation and the 2 television cameras. He shook a few hands, patted some shoulders, and flashed his toothy smile at the cameras. Victory’s services were simulcast on the Victory Web site and a local TV station. They were also syndicated and televised in most of the United States. VHS tapes and DVDs were available later in the day on Sunday for the lucky few who lived near the Worship Center or wanted to order them from the Web.

25 minutes later, the crowds had dissipated. Volunteers were helping to clean up the worship center’s seating area. Billy Ray had wiped down his Tele’s strings and put it safely back into its case. A hand rested on his shoulder.

Bobby J. turned with a start. It was Brother Claghorn. “Yes, sir, Brother Claghorn,” he said, “that was a great message.”

“Thank you, Brother Memphis,” said Brother Claghorn. “I think He really was moving over the face of the congregation today.” He beamed at his next-most celebrated parishioner. Truly, the simple, child-like faith of most of these folks is endearing, he thought. “I wanted to discuss an idea that I feel The Lord has put on my heart today, Bobby J. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

Bobby J. nodded. He very casually sneaked a glance at his watch as he picked up his guitar case. He was glad he wore it facing in—a trick he’d learned on the road when he needed to check the time. Occasionally, he’d have to pick up the pace of the show in some of the less-fanatical venues he’d played later in his career. “Why, sure, Brother Claghorn, let’s,” he said.

“Bobby J., you have surely become an asset to this congregation.” Brother Claghorn paused, waving a hand around Victory’s slowly-emptying Worship Center. “Your example has brought a renewed faith to folks here in town… and more here into Victory. I feel the Lord has great plans for us… and that “us” includes you.”

From a few pews away, Florine’s ears perked up. She was collecting her handbag and a DVD copy of the service. She had her robe on its hanger in a plastic garment bag. She draped it over the back of the pew and sidled closer.

“Well, thanks, Brother Claghorn, I’m sure, but what ‘great plans’ are you talking about?” Bobby J. hunched his shoulders, mystified but intrigued.

“Why, Bobby J., I’m talking about taking Victory’s Praise Band out on a Revival Tour. There are untapped markets—ah, unreached sinners, the lost, the downtrodden—throughout this country. Why, even the Great White North of Canada has those we could reach with His Message of Divine Grace And Peace.” He threw his head back, hands raised to Heaven. “And you are going to be a great asset in the plan—not my plan, but His Great Plan!” Brother Claghorn’s voice reached a dramatic peak, honed by years of bringing home his point in the pulpit and onstage.

Florine exploded in applause, dropping her bag and DVD on a pew in front of her. “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. She clasped her hands over her heart. “Brother Claghorn, it would be an honor!”

Brother Claghorn blushed. He realized he should have spoken to Bobby J. inside his office, but the Spirit had moved him to speak here. Ah, well, he mused, Florine would give her eye teeth to do anything for Victory, and she’d keep the band and choir in line during a tour. Less management on my part.

He grinned, abashedly, and said, “Ah, Florine, gentle Florine… my most valued music minister. Yes, certainly, you will be in that number, when the saints go out on tour. I meant to discuss that matter with you before this evening’s prayer service. I just had to confirm Brother Memphis now, while he is here.” He leaned over to her in a conspiratorial whisper. She could smell the heady blend of his coffee, aftershave, and communion wine. “I do hope you’ll keep an eye on him for me on the road.” He leaned back and winked at both of them.

~ — ~

5

I never promised you a rose garden. However, since you didn’t really want one, that’s probably a great thing. Have you ever tried to really grow roses well? Beauty with a bite.

So where were we? That’s right, we were talking about Taste and where it went… and how the amazingly usual Yanstebangus formed.

Suddenly, The Writer inserts Swirling Flashback Photo Montage. Don’t you wish you had my memories so you could see this? Insert your own recollections of old concerts, visits to art museums, zoos, and spelling bees here.

“Hey, Merman, you have a visitor.”

That’s Teagarden. He’s the decent guard. In different circumstances, we’d probably have been friends. The other guards here aren’t quite so down to earth. That’s OK… I know it’s an unjust imprisonment. It just sucks because although I have the stubs of a hundred or so magic candles—powerless—I’m all out of Magic-Feed Corn and reindeer, so escape will be pretty difficult.

Anyway, excuse me for a moment. Of course, you’re welcome to sit here and listen in on my private conversation.

You voyeur.

“Your kids sent you some pictures for the wall.” She held up a manila folder with the edges of a few pieces of paper sticking out.

“Sweet. Good to see you. Any cakes, or files, or both?”

Teagarden groaned.

“Admit it, Teagarden, it’s still funny every time.”

She rolled her eyes, too. “You ought to take his advice, dear. He is on this side of the bars, after all.”

“OK, OK, fine. Whatever. Heh, heh, heh. Let me see the pictures!”

There were 3 of them, one from each kid, although all 3 worked together and “tweaked” each picture. My favorite: the one with the cake, in which I find a hacksaw.

Good job, kids!

~ — ~

6

“Get those damn injectors in there straight, you idiots!” shouted Bob.

Eddie smacked George on the back of the head. “Yeah, what he said!” Eddie walked off with Bob, the two of them grousing and gesticulating in the subtle ballet performed so often in so many blue-collar locations.

George grimaced and walked over to the subverted engine blocks. “I bet it’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” he muttered. “Sure as hell thinkin’ of drinkin’ my lunch today.” He looked up at the clock. Balefully, it glared back at him. 9:15 AM. It was another rousing start to a bang up day.

~ — ~

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…